Barking at the Moon
by Nova Bucker
Summary: In which the universe doesn't confine itself to complementary genres, truth inspires fiction, the universe is an impartial bitch & trauma conga lines are the norm. They're just an odd kid & a canine affront to human pretense against a world full of the cruel, the dark & the strange; life is not kind and not everyone leaves growing up alive. TV-AU


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, if I did I wouldn't have moths taking residence in my wallet.

**A/N: **Crossposted on Ao3 (archiveofourown . org [remove spaces]) under the penname 'Markala' as part of a multi-crossover series titled 'Distorted Horizons.' A shared universe DOESN'T necessarily equal story overlap, I'm not posting the stories in chronological order and I will release a 'Distorted Horizons-verse' timeline at some point in the future. Inspired by Dinode's "Canine of SHIELD" fanfic I ended up writing this (psssst go read it). Feedback is welcome and appreciated, please enjoy and leave a review if you so choose, let's go!

**Warning/s:** Brief descriptions of suicidal ideation, sleep deprivation, panic attacks and terrible coping mechanisms.

**UPDATE 1:** Miscellaneous fixes as of **3/8/2015**

**UPDATE 2:** Found a better-suited opening quote, cleaned up all my author's notes, sentence structure-related improvements, expanded/smoothed out dialogue, cleaned up the exposition &amp; other miscellaneous tweaks as of **7/5/15**

**UPDATE 3:** Fleshed out the scenes, adjusted some of the plot narrative, removed sentence redundancies, fixed the tenses to match, fixed sentence/grammatical typos and other miscellaneous fixes as of **12/22/15**

* * *

"_Sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all." _

–Lawrence Hill

* * *

**Prologue (Pilot Pre-Theme)**

_Swish-swish._

Hands tap nervously on worn leather as the hanging lights ahead give a dim blink, giving the cue to move forward.

_Swish-swish._

A man breathes deeply, his feet shifting as his fingers itch to take a cigarette from the glovebox.

_Swish-swish._

'_Not yet,'_ he tells himself brusquely as his wayward digits retreat from the glove compartment, _'still a ways to go.'_

_Swish-swish._

Tired eyes squint at the limited visibility, as raindrops patter against the metallic roof above like a billion irregular drumbeats.

_Swish-swish._

Minutes drag on like hours, with nothing but the sound of drumming rain and the rhythmic drag of squeaky windshield-wipers to accompany his thoughts.

_Swish-swish._

In the hours of silence that follow, treacherous thoughts of turning back cling to the corners of his mind, he entertains them for a brief moment, before scowling as common sense rattles its way into the fantasy.

'_Focus on the road durnyy(1)'_ He chastises himself harshly.

_Swish-swish._

'_No going back now.'_

_Swish-swish._

The point-of-no-return is long gone, before this whole mess had even started, he'd been screwed the moment he'd walked into that bar. Now here he is, injured, running ragged with an exhaustion that seems to cling at his very bones from the consequences of a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

_Swish-swish._

Eventually he brings the vehicle to a stop, inhales sharply, steps out of the car and is quickly soaked to the bone by the downpour. He pulls at the door handle once, twice, three times to make sure it's locked, it won't do to have it stolen, ironic, he'd laugh if he wasn't so tired, temporarily or permanently, he isn't even sure if he cares anymore. Too tired to even laugh at his own terribly macabre jokes, his breath starts to hitch with sounds of mounting hysteria.

He can't do this! He won't make it! He doesn't have to keep running, he can just turn around, keep driving, until they catch him and k-!

**CRA-THOOM!**

A cascade of thunder roared above, startling him from his thoughts as a jag of lightning above lights up the street for less than a brief fraction of a second, but his eyes fall back to the rusty green clunker that had gotten him here.

Then he wrings his hands together, digging his fingernails into the burnt skin of his palms and wrists, and hisses sharply. The pain bit at the edges of his himself, chases away the worst of the hysteria, he knows he shouldn't aggravate the wounds, but the pain brings him back, back to himself, back to the here and now.

He moves to press fingers into the burns on his forearms, then once again, twice, thrice.

He's good, he's good.

The man takes a deep breath, then exhales.

'_No, I need to do this.'_ He thinks with determination, his panic now abated into a lump of mild paranoia in his chest, in no way comfortable, but manageable, as he makes his way to the dimly lit building across the street. At the corners of his vision, he notes with relief that the street is abandoned at this early hour, _'for now,' _ he thinks with suspicion as his shivering fingers fumble to maneuver the coins into the slot, their little _clink-clink-clunk_'s drowned out by the weather as the man dials for an operator.

…

The man could swear that an eternity had passed by the time an operator finally answers.

"_Hallo, wie kann ich Ihnen helfen(2)?"_ Comes the blessed voice of a phone operator.

"Ich möchte ein R-Gespräch nach Amerika, um Eagan Falls, Kansas zu machen(3)," the man says through icy lips.

"_Telefonnummer bitte(4)?"_ The operator then requests.

Pushing back the sopping brown hair plastered to his face, the man gives a number and waits for the operator to patch him through. He takes these moments to stare back at the car, and the world seems inordinately silent despite the weather's unceasing rumble, when finally, the phone on the other end begins to ring.

_Ring. Ring._

The man glares at the payphone as he shoves a numbing hand into a soaked pocket of his slacks.

_Ring. Ring._

He waits.

_Ring. Ring._

And he waits.

_Ring. Ring._

Nervously, his eyes dart to take a nervous glance towards the car, then to both ends of the empty street, then back to the car again.

_Ring. Ring._

'_Come on, come on…'_ He thinks, not even trying to conceal the chatter of his teeth anymore.

_Ring. Ri- Click._

"_Yeah?"_ Came a familiar male voice on the other side of the line, though a bit more gravelly than he remembered.

The shivering man hesitates, conviction wavering, was he really doing this? Going down this road again? Can he do this all over again?

"_Who is this?"_ The other man said, subtle demand in his tone.

'_As if I've got any better ideas.'_ The shivering man thinks as his body is shudders with cold, his heartbeat racing with nervous tension as he opens his mouth, "is this line secure?"

"_Of course it's secure, it's a dummy line, for my one and only dummy,"_ the gravelly voice grumbles out sarcastically, not missing a beat, _"that you, Ivan?_"

"Of course it's me," the aforementioned Ivan mutters back quickly.

"_Well, well, not that I don't __**love**__ getting phone calls before the asscrack of dawn, Science Guy, but-"_

"I'm not calling about _that_," Ivan interrupts emphatically, "I'm in trouble," he shivers violently, "and couldn't think of anyone else to call."

"_And here I was waiting all these years for you to invite me to our next tea party."_

"T- t- this isn't a joke," Ivan hisses through chattering teeth, he expected the other man's sarcasm, it means nothing had changed, "but I've g- gone and rozlyuchenyy pokynuty(5) the wrong people and I need to disappear and I," Ivan pauses briefly, "really need your help…"

There is a brief silence on the other end of the line, then a theatric sigh, _"I still don't understand any o' your Russian gibberish; and you and I are going to have a long talk about set boundaries and communication, but for now, where exactly are you?"_

"S- spasybi(6), I've made it to Germany so far," the Ivan responds, not even bothering to correct the other man, "but I'm pl- p-planning on taking off from Fr-"

"_Next question,"_ the gruff man interrupts forcefully, that familiar hint of condescension coloring his voice,and Ivan could practically hear the gears in the other man's head turning, _"on a scale of one to ten, how fucked are you if I just don't give a damn?"_

"Very dead." Ivan answers without missing a beat, "of course, you don't have to help, it's just, I don't exactly have many friends, and I couldn't think of anyone else to turn to, and I know you don't owe me anything but I figured-"

The man on the other end of the line interrupts him once more, _"what about Aneta? I mean, __**she's**__ not a whole continent away."_

Okay, tougher sell than Ivan had anticipated, time for the big guns.

"My mother's _dead_, Noah." Ivan states, his voice much rawer than he wants it to be, but he supposes that given the circumstances it was excusable and could even work in his favor. He's not appealing to Noah's better nature, Ivan highly doubted that the decade of silence between them had fostered one, Ivan was appealing to the man's ego… Among other things.

…

The silence that follows Ivan's statement, would've labeled it as awkward if Ivan didn't know Noah so well. No, it wasn't an awkward silence, it was a cool, calculating silence that desperate as he was, Ivan knew well, letting out some line, letting Ivan squirm a bit.

'_Some things never change,'_ Ivan thought pensively.

…

He can practically _hear_ the gears in Noah's head turning.

"_Look,"_ Noah speaks again, changing the subject quickly, _"getting you new papers will be some bullshit-and-a-half but I think I can swi-"_

Hook and line, meet sinker; wisely, Ivan saves his relieved sigh for the privacy of the car.

"Two people." Ivan interrupts firmly.

"_What?"_

"I- I h- have a daughter." Ivan answers carefully.

The tension lingers in the silence between them until Noah's rumbling cough breaks it. _"You dog! Since when?"_ The other man teases, recovering quickly, Ivan can hear the frosty edges in the other man's strangely gleeful voice, _"you know what? Never mind, just find the west coast of Belgium and call again when you get there."_

"Sp- spasybi(6)," Ivan manages brightly through chattering teeth, "you don't know how much-"

"_Don't make me regret this more than I already know I will, Ivan. Just… Just do as you're told, can you handle that?"_

"Tak(7)." Ivan affirms, then wonders-

"_Ivan,_" Noah's voice was light, teasing, with an almost sing-song quality, _"it'll be good to see you again."_

"Mmhm." Ivan hums an affirmative as a crash of thunder echoes ominously in the distance.

"_You owe me."_

"Mhn?"

"_Forty-fucking dollars for one phone call, Ivan,"_ Noah said with a sardonic smoothness, _"and I know you're calling from a payphone, those things charge a fucking fortune, I don't even need to see the bill."_

"I'll m-make it up t-t-to you." The words fall loosely from Ivan's lips, almost unbidden.

"_O' course you will, get out of the damn rain before you die of pneumonia, your teeth sound like a woodpecker, see you soon,"_ and then the man quickly hangs up before Ivan can respond. Ivan practically slams down the receiver and hurries back to the car.

'"_**You owe me."'**_

Noah's words echo ominously in Ivan's thoughts and panic threatens to spiral into hysteria again…

Ivan felt more like the fish in this tale of woe.

Once back inside, Ivan awkwardly changes into dry clothes in the cramped little car, his skinny-tall frame necessitating an amount of awkward maneuvering. Once dressed, Ivan leans back with a weary sigh, and tries to relax.

…

'_Fat chance of that happening.'_

…

Ivan's attention begins to wander before regarding the carrier tucked in the backseat through the rearview mirror and its slumbering passenger warily. Impulsively, he moves the carrier to rest upon his lap and against the steering wheel, and then he stares at the infant's sleeping face.

Hesitantly, Ivan's raw, blistered fingertips ghost at the tufts of silky-soft red on the child's head, as if he were handling fine china, as if he pressed any harder she'd shatter into a billion little pieces.

'_Look at the mess you've made for yourself Ivan,'_ he thinks bitterly as the rain seems to pour even harder if it were possible, before buckling the carrier into the back seat next to the bags.

So Ivan drives, and drives.

And drives.

He manages to push past his exhaustion and drives on well into the wee hours of the morning only stopping to rest at the side of a desolate, country road when the usually quiet bundle started to cry for food and a change. Then with day-old hunger and exhaustion borne of ninety-six sleepless hours gnawing at Ivan's frayed nerves, he lifts the bottle to the little one's lips. Mindlessly, he watches as the tiny creature suckles happily at her bottle without a care in the world.

The kid isn't even particularly fussy, equal parts quiet and serious interspersed with curious, happy babbling when she wasn't dirty or hungry. This little thing's entire existence currently rested in Ivan's beaten, blistered hands, blissfully unaware of the dangers that pursued them. Ivan _knows_ that there are many, more suitable, more emotionally equipped people that would make better parents than him…

'_But you're all I've got now, little one.'_

But...

Ivan supposes that the kid could have drawn worse cards, he isn't good, but he isn't horrible per say either.

Everything in his life up until this point, everything that he had worked so hard to rebuild after… Well, it was gone in one moment of stupid, self-depreciating, moment of weakness, and for what? Revenge or no, Ivan bitterly laments the knowledge that he was still the loser in either situation, every sleepless nights, the missed meals, every lonely glass in attempt to bury… Anyway, all the scientific _progress_, all for nothing, except now he had people trying to kill him… Again.

Ivan is once again in the never-ending cycle of trying to fix his life, that for some reason for the life of him he just can't seem to escape. Fixing his mistakes was never feasible, when he fucked up, he always fucked up good.

The smell of ash and burning flesh still lingers in his nostrils-

'"_**-wretched boy."'**_

-and the blistered-red skin of his forearms wrapped old, moist bandages give a dull throb as Ivan shakes his head, he can't deal with that right now, he can't, he can't, he _**won't**_.

His mind wanders and a flyaway thought notes that he'll probably have scars.

'"_**-I'mmmm sozha-hic-leyu-(8)! Sozha-hic-leyu(8)…"'**_

'_If I don't die of an infection first.'_

Bitter self-flagellation at the forefront of his mind, Ivan knows he should change the moist, grungy-looking bandages wrapping his palms and forearms, but he puts it off.

"**Pochemu ty ne umresh(9)?!"**

…

'_I need to rethink my life.'_

He needs to rebuild his life, again, everything from scratch, but nothing that he can't handle. But parenthood? Ivan finds the idea terrifying, it's not as if he had had even halfway-decent examples to go by either.

Ivan tries not to let the guilt resulting from that thought distract him too much.

He won't even think about factoring Noah's involvement in this mess, Ivan doesn't want to think about it but he knows he'll have to. As far as how he got into this mess, Ivan can't even _remember_ doing what he did, remembering only a few hazy snatches of the bar, drinking a few shots, then he wakes up in some dingy alley with two lost days, the mother of all hangovers, a bag full of extremely classified items, and a baby in a basket.

And that was how everything went to shit, and his life went to forfeit.

…

Ivan was thankful that he didn't have any other family left, or other friends among the land of the living, the less people involved in this clusterfuck the better.

All Ivan's life, immediate survival had been his main objective, then after many, many painful life experiences, he'd been recruited onto a project by the Soviet Union years ago. Ivan's social life was a non-entity at that point, too many strangers in one day was emotionally, mentally and physically too exhausting for him to seek out on a regular basis. Meeting Noah had been an anomaly borne out of what Ivan assumed to be a combination of alcohol, terrible anniversaries, stupidity and loneliness, a deadly cocktail if there ever was one.

But now Ivan was in it for the long haul, fleeing Europe, new life, parenthood, he isn't sure how exactly he's going to do it. He feels the telltale throb of an oncoming headache-soon-to-be-migraine flashing inside his skull.

'_No, no, no,'_ the man thinks as he digs out a non-descript bottle from the glovebox and pops a little pill into his mouth, _'not today.'_

…

A few minutes pass, and a dribble of wetness crawls its way down his lip,_ 'wonderful,' _he thinks dryly as he presses a wad of tissue into the bleeding orifice.

Even after they got away, what was Ivan going to do _after_? Were they going to live in his Noah's "kindness" forever? What would he do for work? It's not like his credentials can come with him. What if they-

Huh, Ivan thoughts halted, he's already thinking of him and the kid as a they.

'_Must be all that oxytocin… Well played kid, well-played.'_

Ivan shakes his head with a quiet sigh, the rubs his temples, knowing he took the best available option and now he just needs to deal with the consequences. But he could at least figure out this father thing, he just had to start with the physical needs and freewheel it from there.

Ivan feels a note of hysteria leave him in the form of a giggle, not doing much of arguing for his sanity but something close to relief, as the he thinks, _'it's the lack of sleep,' _over and over again like a mantra, and being the sole reason he doesn't turn around and leap into death's open arms like a long lost lover.

"Bbbbaahhbb…" The kid's burbling carries from the passenger seat, causing Ivan's nerves settle a bit.

The hand with the least amount of injury drifts towards his only companion and the infant grips at one of Ivan's index fingers, burbling with groggy glee.

'_Cute, kid.'_ He notes carefully before securing the carrier in the backseat.

Maybe the parent thing wouldn't be too bad; he could teach her coding, languages, science and so much more... Yes, Ivan can do that too, he couldn't mess that up.

His mistakes are his own, and he'll dodge the consequences as best he can, it isn't like he hasn't had a lot of practice.

'_I'll make it work little one,'_ he thinks with a sigh as he shifts the car into gear and pulls back onto the road, _'I'll figure it out, promise.'_

It's about an hour later when Ivan realizes that he should probably name her before he left Europe.

* * *

**Translation/s **(everything is googled or from google translate; in order of appearances, also is the placement of the parenthesized numbers correct/clear? I just don't want anyone to be confused is all)**:**

(1) durnyy = (Ukrainian) stupid

(2) Hallo, wie kann ich Ihnen helfen? = (German) Hello, how may I be of assistance?

(3) Ich möchte ein R-Gespräch nach Amerika, um Eagan Falls, Kansas zu machen = (German) I would like to make a collect call to America, to Eagan Falls, Kansas.

(4) Telefonnummer bitte? = (German) Phone number please?

(5) rozlyuchenyy pokynuty = (Ukrainian, literal translation) pissed off

(6) Spasybi = (Ukrainian) Thank you

(7) Tak = (Ukrainian) Yes

(8) Sozhaleyu = (Russian) sorry

(9) Pochemu ty ne umresh?! = (Russian) Why won't you die?!

* * *

**A/N:** Free history lesson, this chapter takes place in 1990, a little over a year before the fall of the Soviet Union (thus the end of the Cold War). Ivan has a combination of partial/full thickness second degree burns(mostly partial thickness) which is the happy medium between painful, generally survivable and will most likely scar. I've tweaked this chapter for hopefully the final time, I just moved across the country (among other things) and then my laptop corrupted the file for the next chapter(30+ pages F*CKDMMIT). But my writing mojo is returning, thought there still isn't internet where I live and I'm posting this at a Dunkin' Donuts half an hour from where I live, so updates will be more sporadic than usual until home internet is set up. Until next time!


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